Phantom of the Thornier
by ringroundtheRose
Summary: When a fateful fire brings a premature end to the last great Poke opera house in Lumiose City, nobody could have predicted that it would make a comeback ten years later. But the decisions of a phantom may ultimately determine its success.
1. Chapter 1

The Palais Thornier, once a central facet of the Lumiose City bourgeois lifestyle, exists now as but a shadow of its former glory. It was not until recently that any effort was made to restore it, as part of a by all accounts ambitious project spearheaded by the new management of the Palais, Margaux le Baudin, who had herself been a star actress that graced the prominent theater's stage during its heyday.

Today, Le Baudin is a woman leaning on her mid 30s and, although certainly not the flamboyant young starlet of yesteryear, her hair is still blonde and flowing, and her eyes that had once regularly graced the cover of _Le Nouvel Poké Opéra_ are still an attractive faded gray in color, still looking slightly amused by everything that the world had to offer. She was decidedly in no rush to disappear into obscurity as all Poké opera singers inevitably do, and had for the past decade earned a more than modest living from performing at the occasional special event or haughty cocktail social; on occasion spending less of her time singing and more of her time drinking, but always paid extravagantly if only for her presence.

But tonight - and Margaux could feel it in her bones, much like the passion that drove her to the stage in the first place - tonight was going to be an extraordinary start to her new life not as a performer, but this time around, as a manager.

She arrived at the theater early in the morning; well before even the decorating team that was to (hopefully) apply the finishing touches in time for the Grand Opening scheduled for that evening. She is comfortably seated at one of the bright red sofas in the foyer, perking up when her guest emerges through the double wide doors fashionably late, as was his style.

He is a handsome earl, wearing a purple coat, top hat (which he removes) and garnet embroidered white undershirt. Bowing and kissing her hand, his wavy chestnut stained hair falls at either side of his elegantly crafted face: with its thin, elfen nose and rounded, effeminate contours.

The grand damme appears to be flustered. "Monsieur Théodore, you are late. And hammy as ever, I see." She says, caught between a grin and a scathing stare. The Frenchman was simply too gorgeous to hate outright!

"Hammy, and the critics are in love with me for it." He replies, showcasing his sparkling white teeth, hazel colored eyes twinkling when he smiles. Normally, one would have to pay a one thousand pokédollar admittance to be entitled to such a treat, and only then as a member of an audience.

"As for being late, I apologize. I had rehearsed my lines for _Rose de l'amour éternel_ tonight, and it took _un peu_ longer than expected."

He retrieves a Poké ball that had been hooked to and daintily hanging by a gold strap connected to one of his belt loops.

"Oh, I imagine Clovis is as excited as I am, to have the honor of performing at the Thornier on the night of it reopening!"

Théodore squeezes the capsule, releasing a Roserade from it in a flash of red light.

The Bouquet Pokemon sways its rose arms toward Margaux in greeting, then appraises its surroundings with an expression of thorough disinterest.

Before Le Baudin could begin to dispense with the usual pleasantries about his Pokemon, the door opens again.

Joining the two is a young woman with raven-black hair whose resemblance to the Madame would have nonetheless immediately struck any veteran theater critic in Lumiose City. Estella le Baudin flips her Pidgeot-feather scarf over her shoulder, glaring at Margaux coldly through a similar pair of misty gray eyes. But whereas her mother's own were prone to looking upon all things with curiosity and a healthy dose of childish naivety, her daughter's gaze was more critical; intimidating.

"I am here, mother." She acknowledges simply, and nothing more is said on the matter.

Le Baudin takes Théodore, Estella and Clovis on a brief tour of the Palais, which, through careful planning, had retained its original layout.

"Save for a few...minor details, to prevent a repeat of the 2003 disaster."

She need not go into detail, either. Everyone knew about the fire which had been wrought by an explosion in the boiler room of the original Palais Thornier. It created a blaze that consumed everything: the stage, the dressing rooms, the audience, the foyer, ultimately claiming as many as 52 confirmed human and Pokemon lives, including those of its lead male actor and his Pokemon partner.

The group stops at a pair of freshly polished dual mahogany doors that lead to the auditorium.

Théodore inspects the door's intricate designs with amazement. "_Impossible_! I remember this door from the original construction. As a child, I was fascinated by the little Pokemon in its design!"

"They were an obsession of the theater's architect, Erik Thornier." Margaux explains, tracing along the flowers, the vines and Pokemon with her hand. "Hence the tradition of lead roles always going to Pokemon of Roselia's evolutionary line."

Estella clears her throat loudly. "Might I finally see the stage?" And, just like before, nothing more is said on the subject of the artistry of the door.

The auditorium is cloaked in a thick darkness, pierced only by the light from the outside that reveals particles of dust spiraling in the empty space between rows upon rows of long velvet cushioned seats that are a bright red in color much like the sofas in the foyer.

"I will turn on the lights. Why not come up to the stage, and have a feel for it?" Margaux says, then disappears behind the emerald and gold stage curtains.

Estella is about to take upon the steps leading onto to the stage, but is blocked by Théodore.

"_Belle femme_ and my co-star for the evening, I should have guessed you are the daughter of the graceful Madame le Baudin!"

"Graceful? _Merci_, she would have loved to hear that when her career sank and she turned to the liquor for comfort." Estella scowls, brushing a displaced brunette strand of hair back into place behind her ear, as she slips past Théodore and climbs unto the stage. "She moves about as clumsily as a Spinda now, merely the remnants of a once great _Carmine_."

A loud thud noise coming from up in the balconies startles them.

"Who goes there?" Théodore yells, his voice carrying across the whole hall.

A rapid succession of lighter knocks follow, sounding like rapid footsteps.

Clovis looks around agitated, as if sensing a presence.

But when the knockings subside as the overhead lights flicker on, it is apparent that no one else was present in the auditorium.

"Perhaps it was a janitor combing the rows." Thédore suggests, when he sees how much it had shaken Estella. Although he himself was unconvinced. After all, he had just watched the entrance to the auditorium be unlocked by Margaux, so it was unlikely that anybody would have had access before them, on that day. "A Pokemon might have slipped inside somehow." He adds, after some thought.

Isabella nods in agreement. "Bunnelby are known for engaging in such rascally behavior, I suppose." She makes up a face as though it were the most disgusting of thoughts to ever cross her mind.

Margaux re-emerges.

"So Isabella, where is Alexis? You know the show cannot go on without her." She says, eyeing the Luxury Poke ball at her daughter's side.

Isabella crosses her arms. "She will come out only when the play demands as much. That is its only purpose. Now, show me to where the dressing rooms are, if you would please."

Margaux and Théodore exchange concerned looks, the latter considering whether to bring up the strange occurence - ultimately deigning not to, as it would have brought bad luck down on his debut at the theatre - while the former was thinking that tonight would not run as swimmingly as she had previously envisioned.

Le Baudin had invited her estranged daughter to play an important role in the opening production - her first big break in months - and yet to Margaux's dismay, expressed aloud in a prolonged sigh, her daughter still appeared to be unwilling to let go of their previous disagreements. She was as stubborn as father alright, and if only he had still been around she might have a share of his joviality and kindness as well.

Clovis just rolls his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The turnout to _Rose de l'amour éternel _or, as it is called in English, The Rose of Eternal Love, was unprecedented. All of the arena and balcony seats were bought out by the who's who of the Kalos elite, and box seats were reserved by prominent individuals hailing from as far away as the Johto region, booked as many as two weeks in advance.

Théodore peeks out at the audience from behind the curtains, in his full costume: comprised of a robin's egg blue beret with a white feather poking out of it, and a wool tunic of the same color. Clovis clings to his heels closely, shuffling his feet impatiently.

"Tonight is packed, _mon ami_." He looks at Clovis. "Where is Estella? Our debut is approaching."

Clovis shrugs, no doubt glad to be spared her insufferable presence for even just a few seconds anyhow.

As if on cue, Estella appears at the other side of the stage, garbed in a pearl white dress decked with pink ribbons. She is holding a blue rose prop in one of her pink gloved hands.

Alexis the Lilligant is with her, its eyes closed in a deep concentration.

Théodore waves at them.

"Hello, _mademoiselle_! You look stunningly beautiful tonight. And I am glad to see you as well, Alexis."

"Why don't you spare your French for the stage, Romeo _le précoce_." Estella snaps at him.

"Precocious?!" Théodore exclaims, looking genuinely offended. But before he can make his case for the contrary, the curtain is called so he hurries to correct himself.

Margaux watches all this from the back of the stage. Her eyebrows are crinkled, hinting at her prevailing feelings of anxiety. Even as Théodore, Estella, Clovis and Alexis take the stage and the audience erupts into excited claps and a sea of eager faces, it does nothing to assuage them.

But why?

Why feel this way tonight, opening with such a timeless classic as _Rose, _the kind of story of a romantic affair between star-crossed lovers ending in tragedy, that audiences adore? And at a beloved theatre like the Palais Thornier? Because she had heard the mysterious knocking noise too, and was already aware that such strange happenings were not uncommon here.

The lights grow dim. A spotlight flickers on, centering on the figure of Théodore who is kneeling dramatically as he opens, to orchestral accompaniment:

"Oh Carmine, my love,

Gift of the angels and heaven above,

I vow to you my writhing soul,

To you I pledge my love's _Rose de l'amour éternel." _

Clovis leaps in front of him, twirling majestically in midair to release petals that shower upon the audience.

Then another, red spotlight, falls on Estella, who throws her arm out toward Thédore as she sings:

"Your love it stings,

Reaks of deadly sins, my

Heart _dévores_ everything,

It sees the sparkle in your eye,

I pray you seek to run and hide,

Your _Rose de l'amour éternel _from me_."_

Alexis spins about the stage like a dancer, whipping up a whirlwind that gathers the petals littering the stage.

Margaux craved a sip of chardonnay at this point to numb her nerves. To help her accept that the night could be nothing other than a complete success. Because of course, the night was going to be a success. Four of the best performers in the business were gracing the stage, and from what she could hear, they were at their absolute best.

But, since the early days of the Palais Thornier's four month long rebuilding process, strange things had been happening, and the thought of them weighed heavily on her mind. There were stories that had been passed on to her by the construction workers: of tools disappearing inexplicably, the sound of disembodied footsteps in the auditorium, shadowy figures sighted in the balconies and haunting the dressing rooms.

_Haunting_. She shakes her head, but cannot discard the thought. Nor the faint possibility that something supernatural had existed here since the day of that terrible fire, waiting for the place to be reopened to make its presence known. Surely a ghost was the last thing the Thornier..._her_ Thornier needed, when it was just getting back on its feet.

"Give me your everythiiiing!

Give me your _Roooose de l'amoooour éternel_!"

She overhears Théodore croon in his artfully wavering falsetto, signalling the conclusion of the first scene.

The spotlight fades out and the flood lights flicker on again, then there is a round of applause as the curtain falls.

Le Baodin sees this as her chance to warn the others about the stories she had been told.

"Monsieur Théodore, there is something I must tell you!"

"Not now, pet!" He calls back at her. "The stage demands my full attention already!"

So she turns to Estella, who walks past her, heading for the dressing room.

"Estella, if I could have one minute please!"

Margaux reaches for her arm but misses, and she disappears around the corner wordlessly. That imagined bottle of chardonnay was sounding more appealing by the second.

The curtain raises again. This time, just Théodore, Clovis, and Alexis are on the stage.

"Dear Lillyweather, sweetest petal,

_Héraut_ of _ma bien-aimée_,

the dainty and the strange rose

that mine heart chaseth..."

The spotlight flickers, which is not unusual considering that the original lighting system had been preserved, but only served to compound Margaux's gnawing sense of foreboding.

Théodore, however, does not miss a beat.

"Bequeth and my swell companion,

My cumbersome Humberdoyle,

Impart upon me your _mag -"_

The spotlight shuts off completely, casting everything in complete darkness. Everybody in attendance knew that this was not in the script, and Margaux was certain that this was not planned ahead. She feels along the far wall in search of the controls for the back up lighting, and eventually finds it, removing the wooden cover then flicking random switches until backup lights fizzle to life.

Théodore, who had remained frozen on stage, blinks until his eyes readjusted to the new, slightly dimmer source of light.

"_Excusez-moi_, Lillyweather, but we are experiencing some technical issues this evening." He says, earning a few laughs from the audience. Then the show goes on as scripted, and no other mishaps occur up through the concert's conclusion, at which point Margeaux breathes in a deep sigh of relief.

After the final curtain call, she arranges for everyone to meet backstage.

"What happened to the lights? Could they be fixed in time for the next performance?" Théodore asks immediately.

Estella scoffs. "The lights went off unexpectedly at this quaint old theatre?" She says, hardly bothering to mask her sarcasm.

"I will try to get to the bottom of what caused the blackout tonight, and if it requires the assistance of the mechanics then I will have them in by tomorrow morning." Margaux reassures them. Then adds, after further contemplation. "Although, they had given me their word that something like this would not happen, so my faith in them has waned somewhat." _And, if by a stroke of luck the issue at hand turns out to be something I can resolve on my own through the unabashed application of duct tape, I would be more than happy to dismiss them._

But later that evening, what she finds is something that no amount of duct tape would be able to repair, and she knew immediately that it must be kept a secret from the others. For, upon inspecting the central lighting area beneath the stage, Margaux discovers that every last wire had been precisely cut through - clearly as though from a knife or other bladed instrument - effectively rendering the whole system useless.

Margaux made up her mind to never be alone in the theatre ever again.


	3. Chapter 3

Poke Opera had once been the crux of my life: the root of my dreams; my _raison d'être_, but also the Eden of my unrequited lust.

Now I watch the stage like a hawk every night, my only intimate companion being the shadows. I have dwelled here since that fateful day, not awaiting a revival. Not anticipating any recompense for what was lost then, that could never be returned.

Tonight they are performing _Rose de l'amour éternel _for the first time since opening night. It was I that had slashed the lights in a fury, when I had realized that despite everything I had done to keep the Palais Thornier dead in my heart, it once again lives and breathes, before me, the wretched forgotten thing that dwells in the rafters.

Yet even now in my degenerate state, the warmth of Carmine still can reach me, as she begins her _Blooming Heart_ cantata:

"My heart sees you at last,

Your rose, its thorns, bored in my heart,

I bless your name..."

I absorb the reaction of the audience like a ray of sun. Their bated breaths, the minute whispers shared among them tickle my brittle chin tangibly.

When the Lilligant releases a cloud of blue powder into the air, turned purple by the red spotlight that enshrines her, my heartbeat quickens. How long had it been since the last time I enjoyed that stage, and entertained hundreds?

How long ago was it, when I flourished in _her_ presence?


	4. Chapter 4

Estella is exhausted by the time the concert ends, but Théodore was as wound up as usual, showing no signs of losing the spring in his step any time soon, while he fulfills his custom of sharing a word of thanks with each member of the backstage crew. And not just anyone that happened to walk by him either, no; he made a case to track down every single one of the makeup artists, the light technicians, the curtain handlers...

"I don't understand you, Théodore." She finally says, after watching him buzz past her several times. "Four days of back-to-back performances and yet you're bouncing off the walls like a schoolchild."

"I assure you,_ mon chéri_ , I am just as glad as you are that the week is finally over." He removes his hat with one hand and wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief he pulls from his coat pocket.

Margaux approaches with teetering steps, grinning widely, the half empty bottle of wine she swings back and forth in her right hand a likely indicator of as to why.

"_Excellent_! _Superbe_! That was even better than the first night, you four!" She stumbles, and would have fallen to the ground if Théodore had not caught her.

"Madame, you have had far too much to drink!" He says, and tries to snatch the bottle away, but she easily staves off his efforts.

"Back to her old habits." Estella remarks with disgust.

"Have you no compassion for your one and only mother?" Margaux whines, poking the bottle at Estella's legs pathetically. "After all I have done for you? After helping you start your career as an actress, and giving you your first partner, bred from my own precious Alexis?"

"I won't listen to this again." She storms away, leaving Théodore in an awkward position with the incoherrent wreck hanging over his shoulder.

To get to the dressing rooms at the Palais Thornier, one has to traverse a labyrinthe series of underground stone tunnels and long corridors that also lead back to the foyer and the outside. On top of that there were some routes that had been sealed off long ago, and rumor has it there existed some areas that were yet to be discovered.

Luckily for her, Estella had "stormed" off the stage regularly over the past five days, so she had already learned the directions to her dressing room by heart.

Once inside, (had she not been in such a hurry, she might have noticed, and thought it strange that the door was already unlocked) she begins plucking off the ribbons on her costume, yelling furiously in French:

_La folle! _

_Échoués vieille sorcière!_

_Elle ne peut pas survivre à une journée sans sa boisson!_

And so on.

She starts to pull off one of her tightly fitting shoes, bounding on one foot as she scrambles to find the switch for the kerosene lamp on the counter, but stops suddenly.

There is a peculiar odor in the still air, not unlike charred onions. Quite unlike the usual prevailing, musty smell she had grown accustomed to.

Estella switches on the light - a pale pink glow - and for the first time comes face-to-face with the spectre that had been stalking her since she first set foot into the Thornier. "Aaugh, démon! Fantôme!"

The gruesome creature that had patiently awaited her in the dark stirs and stares at her, unblinking, through a single blood red pupil. It points a sharp-tipped leathery appendage at her threateningly, as it draws nearer.

"Get back! Stay away from me!" Estella's legs crumble beneath her and she finds herself cornered; her back literally set against the wall. "Help, somebody! _Aider moi! Aider moi!_" She screams.

But by this time the last few audience members, the musicians, the stagehands are all leaving, and Théodore is shepherding the inebriated Margaux out a back exit. Nobody was around to come to her aide, and her assailant knew this.

It swings its arm, knocking the lamp off the table which clatters when it hits the ground.

"Get back!"

Her head is spinning. Was she blacking out? No, it was the work of the _Fantôme_, sprinkling a sleep-inducing powder over her, its effects superseding the intense fear and revulsion, lulling her into a comatose slumber from which he could with the ease of killing an insect, ensure that she would never awake from, and the raging storm in his heart did inspire.

The light in the dressing room flickers off.


	5. Chapter 5

I swear it had been by impulse. I know that I had acted without thinking when I had camped inside her dressing room, then flung myself at her so viciously. I know it was monstrous of me, the way I had dragged her slumbering form through the deepest depths of the labyrinth below the Palais to a secret place - my nest - where no one could find us; where no one would be able to rescue her, my perfect _Carmine_, from the fruition of my darkest whims.

If only I could bring myself to carry through with them.

Let it be made clear that no thorn of mine so much as grazed her, and that my lust lay unfulfilled although she lay helplessly before me, rosy lips spread ajar seductively, and the slight mound of her breast growing and contracting without irregularity.

The most I could muster was a stroke against her soft cheek. The naked skin felt horribly distant, seperated from me by my own deeply scorched and scarred layer, that had been oblivious to the sensation of touch for far longer than I could remember, even if I cared to.

After all I had been enlightened by the truth long ago; I knew that the concept of time became nonexistent since the day that my whole world, and I, went up in flames.

The unalienable effect that this _Carmine_'s every inhalation had on me was a stark testament to that.

I could hardly stand to look upon her.


	6. Chapter 6

Estella's eyelids flutter open. Her mind, adrift in a haze as she tries to get a handle on her surroundings. Rays of sun and the smell of the unreachable world outside filter in through slight cracks between the wooden boards that make up the floor, walls and ceiling.

She notices a familiar image on one wall, situated at just the right point where two rays of light intersected, so that she could clearly examine it.

It was a picture of a man in a feathered cap grasping at an empty space with his right hand. A Woman garbed in an old fashioned red dress is kneeling behind him with a mournful expression on her face.

She squints her eyes and is able to decipher the word "Rose", printed across the picture in large, all capital letters, using a font that had fallen out of style with the times and that awoke an ancient memory in her.

Here was a poster that harkened back to the days when Poke opera was not just enjoyed by a stuffy and gradually decomposing generation of old-timers, but had been something current, fashionable, totally _alive _and deeply ingrained in the culture of Kalos_. _

The poster, she recognized in a flash, had been for the original production of _Rose de l'amour éternel, _more than a decade ago.

But what was that doing here, and more importantly, where was she?

Like a seeping nerve venom, her fear of the phantom returns and violates her thoughts. Had he trapped her? What then were his intentions? It made her sick to try and imagine.

She whirls her head around and, in her paranoid state, stifles a scream at the sight of her own reflection, cast across the reflective surface of a jagged chunk of glass hung crookedly on another wall.

A single, blood red pupil emerges within the darkened area next to it.

"Carmina...you are...at last awake." Says the phantom, in a crackling voice fraught with long, awkward pauses and fluctuating tones that would be impossible to imitate precisely in writing.

Rather, I find that the best way to describe the peculiar way in which the phantom spoke would be say it was so alien to the average English-speaking listener, that one would have to take the time to meticulously consider each word he uttered individually in order to fully 'hear' him.

To the untrained ear of Estella, he might as well have been speaking in another language. On top of that, she had already made up her mind about him.

"_Fantôme_! You have finally made yourself known!" She snarls at him derisively. "You've had your eyes on me all along. You have been the unaccounted for noises in the balcony since day one. You are the source of my hair-raising fear, whenever I am alone in the Palais. _Vous êtes mon_ _harceleur fantôme_! "

He take a step from out of the shadows and, for the first time since the fire that nearly burned the Palais Thornier to the ground ten years ago, the phantom grants an outsider a full view of him.

"Perhaps you are right...but...fear not...I mean you no harm."

To Estella's surprise, the _Fantôme_ is neither a man nor the horned devil she envisioned.

Instead, he stands at an unintimidating three feet tall - a deal shorter than she - with a scaly black extended needle for one hand and a withering flower bouquet for the other. The leaves that make up much of its body are pitch black, and the telltale cape of its species was colored an even darker shade of black, that would camouflage when set against natural darkness. Even its hair, too, was reduced to nothing more than an unattended mess of torn, crispy brown leaves.

The charred smell that belonged to the phantom challenges Estella's breathing as it closes the distance between them. She tries to move away, but was still feeling too groggy from the effects of the sleeping powder to make a concentrated effort.

"So you are a Pokemon, of all things?" Estella spits. "You are a Roserade?"

A mechanism fixed into its neck stirs subtly whenever it speaks (without opening its mouth).

"Yes. And I mean...not to...harm you." It says, then glides away from her with the swiftness of a dancer and raises, with all the rigidity afforded of its roasted and scar-ridden body, its thorn hand to stroke the girl's reflection in the makeshift mirror. "I am just...lonely."

Estella struggles to her feet. "Is that why you kidnapped me?" She asks apprehensively, almost falling again but quickly righting herself. "Why do you dwell in this theatre?"

"I was an...actor...at the Palais...before the fire." It tells her, flapping its cape using the bouqueted hand without warning, and so sharply as if it were an irrepressible reflex. "I once performed along...side the greatest actors..._les plus grands_ _acteurs_...of all time..._monsieur _Francoise Béringer...Margaux le Baodin..."

Estella lunges at the phantom the moment its eyes stray from her reflection.

Estella grabs ahold of its thin leg. She rears back her other arm for a swing, but is held off by a retaliatory slash across the face from the phantom's thorn, that was every bit as sharp as any decent blade.

Estella, still dressed as _Carmine_, screams from the pain. She drops to her knees and bows her head as blood pours forth from the wound, dripping down unto the floor in small droplets.

"_Folle_...is it only...French...you know...or are you sim...ply stupid?" The phantom says, with no discernible change to its flat, robotic voice. Although, the pauses in its speech only seemed to increase with its elevated temper. "All I asked...for _Carmine_...was your company."

It proceeds to swat her in the head with its bouquet repeatedly, applying more force to each hit than the last. When the girl holds up her hands to defend herself, the gnarled thorns hidden among the assaulting flowers rip and tear at her skin like the fangs of a dog. While the enslaught continues, Estella is constantly shouting for help and begging her attacker to cease, but to no avail. The theatre was totally empty now, and the Roserade had fallen into an incurable rage.

It would not stop until it felt satisfied with the pain it had unleashed.

The phantom is panting, and Estella's arms are covered in the fresh blood welling from her raw palms, when the tirade finally ends.

It glares at her with the intensity of a proud soul who finds he must at last accept defeat. In truth, he was too tired to even lift his arm again. "If you cannot...stand the sight of me...go now, Carmine. But I promise you...without me...you will not get...far."

Estella stares at him blankly for a while, sobbing and blubbering uncontrollably; unable to speak.

"Leave." It commands one more time, and she tumbles out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

I ran out of the room as fast as my feet could take me, even though my damned dress would drag at my heels so that I had to hold it up constantly like some hapless belle with my now sore, bloody hands.

Between the spaces in the wall I could feel a breeze and see that, outside, night had fallen. I had the sense that I was high up somewhere. Other than that, I knew the phantom had taken me to an area of the theatre I had never been to before.

Reaching a dead end, I look back - the phantom was not in sight. He must have really let me off the hook after all.

But I wasn't about to wait around and test my luck after what he did to me.

Feeling along the walls and the ground, my fingers eventually grasp a handle. I pull on it, revealing a trap door.

My heart threatens to burst from my chest as I descend on a ladder, that creaked and groaned under my weight. I found myself thinking about the phantom - wondering about its motives, and how long it had lived in the theatre.

It wasn't until I reached the bottom of the ladder, that a thought struck me. It was when the Luxury Ball which contained my Alexis pokes against my hip that I realized she had been with me all this time. Perhaps, I mused as I held the capsule in my hand, I could have bested the phantom with her help...

I quickly remind myself that I am an actress, not a Pokemon trainer, and stow it away.

This room was familiar to me. Margaux had shown us through some of the sidelining areas that formed a shell around the central auditorium, mostly out of concern to prevent any future fires from spreading.

I remembered the way through to the stage from there, wiping away the blood that kept pouring from the open wound across my face as I went. It stung terribly, and I was anxious to get home to inspect the damage.

From there? If I ever saw this blasted theatre again it would be too soon. I would simply call the police to inform them of the Palais Thornier's unruly resident. Doubtless, the villain would have to find another location in which to haunt and thrash defenseless women. And before you ask I couldn't care less if Margaux were to go out of business without her star actress, and that is the naked truth.

Once I made it past the rows of seats, brought my hand up and clasped it around the doorknob, the phantom's last warning had finally acquired meaning.

"But I promise you...without me...you will not get...far." He had said, but at the time I thought the fallen Poke opera star was merely being dramatic.

The reality was that the mahogany double doors - the ones that were included in the original construction, with the cute Roselia engravings Théodore had recognized - were locked.

I was trapped in the Palais Thornier with the phantom until Monday.


	8. Chapter 8

I rattled the doors. Kicked them. Pounded on them, yelling, but they would not budge. They were locked from the other side, as they were, by the Janitor, every night at eleven.

As I continued my vain attempts at forcing those wretched doors open, I was bound by instinct to look over my shoulder repeatedly, scared out of my mind from imagining that the phantom was skulking around in the darkness, mere inches from me, covertly revelling in my frustration.

_I am all his, until he decides to finish what he started._ I think, and it sends shivers down my spine. Clearly he had planned it all from the start, the wicked criminal. He knew when the doors would be locked at night, and by that knowledge he had trapped me.

But luckily I still had one final resort he must not have taken into account: the Luxury ball dangling at my hip, that contained Alexis!

At least it would have, were it the real thing.

I squeeze the ball but nothing happens, and the realization hits me like another swing from the phantom's thorned arm.

"_Oh! Merde!_" I curse aloud, and discard the useless hollow wooden prop in a fit. The real Poke ball, I remembered, I had left in my dressing room before the last performance of the evening. And of course the trouble with that was, between me and the basement tunnels existed a black void - the phantom's domain - any journey through which I was reluctant to risk.

My stomach growled audibly with hunger _as if I weren't in enough anguish already_, as I sat, acting like the _gros_ _bébé_ that my mother always said I was, slumped against the wall with tears streaming from my eyes.

In my defense, I submit to you that I was crying not only from the physical pain (granted the pangs of hunger and searing wounds ardently refused to be ignored), but pain I felt from newly hatched thoughts, that all of what I had been put through tonight may have been easily avoided.

Would things have been better, I asked myself, if I had not been so quick to attack the phantom? After all, he - malodorous in his decomposing state, with the mechanism through which he spoke affixed to his neck gruesomely - had said he meant me no harm. But was it really no wonder I reacted the way I did? He was hideous! But even so, what if I had never thrown a tantrum at the sight of Margaux drinking, in the first place?

A sharp clicking noise, as if a heavy switch had been turned, jars me out of my thoughts.

Suddenly a large, square box of light fills the blank space above the stage, and I have to shield my eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

_Rose de l'amour éternel _is a story about two lovers that were seperated during the Great War, but reunited by a vow made over a rose and the efforts of their Pokemon. The play was considered the masterwork of playwright and architect Erik Thornier, which the biographers say he began to pen in a worn notebook while serving in the actual Great War, not completing it three years later.

Playing on the stage that evening in the Palais that he had envisioned, shot from the kind of projector that may well have been used in his time, is one of the original Poke opera adaptations of his most cherished script.

It was the only film reel that the phantom could manage to recover from the debris of the Palais Thornier, in the aftermath of the fire. All of the others had been scorched beyond recovery. For years he had kept it stowed away in a secret place, hoping that with time he would be able to forget about ever finding it.

The sepia tone film is grainy and fraught with exposure marks throughout but Estella can still make out the four main characters: Humbold, in his feathered hat, Carmine with a flower tucked behind her ear, wearing the same multi-tiered dress that Estella was, and the traditional Lilligant playing the Lillyweather role, and a Roserade playing the part of Pierre.

Estella runs down the aisle. "Is that you there, phantom?" She yells at the ceiling.

Although it was indeed the phantom operating the projector he does not respond. His eyes are peeled on the screen, watching the scene where Humbold kneels to Pierre the Roserade's height, asking him to stay behind and protect Carmine while he is out to war.

"Is this what you wanted me to stick around for? Because I have to admi-" Estella stops, squinting at the screen showing a close-up on the Roserade's face.

There is a familiar odd metallic device protruding from its neck.

"_Fantôme?_" She says aloud, walking down the aisle toward the screen to get a closer look.

"Yes...that was...once me."

Estella spins around and almost screams when her eyes set on the phantom, standing in front of the locked doors.

He flails his bouquet around in the air flamboyantly, which was now cast in a faint pinkish hue from Estella's dried blood, and he bows.

"My name...was Winslow...back when I had a dream."

Estella is backing away slowly, but as much as she wanted to still be afraid of him, her curiosity was growing. The Winslow on the screen looked like a regular Roserade, the glaringly obvious neck attachment notwithstanding, so to see him in his pitiful state now was heartbreaking.

"You had a dream?" She asks, leading him on.

Winslow nods stiffly. "I would tell...you but...I need you...to help me." He lifts his thorn arm up against the device on his neck. "There is a screw...loose...I need you to...rewind."

_A screw loose? You don't say..._

Nervously, the bruised beauty comes within arm's reach of him, but when he moves his arm slightly, she flinches.

Winslow must have caught the reaction. "I am sorry...for lashing...out on you...I...was scared." He says with a frown.

"Oh."

_Scared? _She had not thought of it before, when she herself had been so afraid. _He was scared of me, when I attacked him. Scared of being rejected again, when all he wanted was for somebody to share the air he breathes._

Estella takes a deep breath before she wraps her finger tips around the cog-shaped screw.

"Here goes nothing." She says, and rotates it once, clockwise. The Roserade winces in pain, but tells her to keep going. So, she keeps turning it until it clicks into place, and she could not turn it any more.

The effect it has on Winslow's speech is immediate.

"Thank you." He says in a perfectly clear, light-as-a-cloud male's voice.

Estella just nods awkwardly, still not quite accustomed to casually talking with the legendary ghost that was said to haunt the Palais Thornier.

Meanwhile, the film is at the part when Pierre is tasked by Humbold to deliver a love letter to Carmine back at home, making him promise to keep the fact that he had lost one of his legs to an enemy soldier's Pinsir a secret.

For the first time in forever, the macabre remains of the Poke opera star Winslow smiles. "Now take a seat with me, dear Carmine, for my story is a long one, with many twists and turns, and I have been aching to share it with someone for a long, long time."


End file.
